A Golden Path (Asoiaf/Dune) (Patreon)

“My lord, a man of the Night’s Watch has arrived,” Maester Wallys informed, stirring Rickard Stark as he gazed out upon the battlements of his home and castle, Winterfell. Cold winds made his dark brown hair whip at his cheeks, intermingling with the last winter snow. Winter itself had yet to yield its grip on the land, and the surrounding countryside was covered in a layer of undisturbed white. It made the message that was delivered all the more puzzling.

“A deserter?” Rickard questioned, unbothered by the cold. Maester Wallys was a man of his own age, in his late thirties, and struggled with the cold. A heavy chain hung from his neck, each link denoting a field of study -- black iron for raventry, silver for medicine, gold for sums, and a valyrian steel link for magic. The maester winced when a particularly cutting wind swept over the battlements, but he answered all the same.

“No, my lord. Not unless he intends to offer his head to the block,” Maester Wallys replied, making Rickard frown. A rider in this weather was a risk. They would have spring snows for months more before the North woke from its slumber to break ground and toil again. The raven from the maesters announcing that it was spring had arrived half dead from the winter chill that still lingered. Travel was not yet safe, meaning that whatever message the man of the watch bared was bad news.

He offered a curt nod, turning away from the battlements and snow crunched underfoot. Though, he stilled when he heard a girlish squeal from his daughter, Lyanna. A glance over the battlement revealed that her brother, Benjen and the youngest of his children, had repaid the snowball she threw at him in full, striking her in the face. A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips as he continued on, a silent hope in his chest that whatever ill tidings were delivered wouldn’t ruin this time of joy.

Lyanna was twelve years old and flowered. It wouldn’t be long before he was besieged by letters of offers for her hand. Already, she was as beautiful as her mother had been -- dark brown hair, steel gray eyes, and a long face with high cheekbones. They looked enough alike that his heart would sometimes ache when he looked upon his only daughter. The thought brought a scowl to his face as he descended into the warm halls of Winterfell, the gray walls warding off the chill by the spring water pumped through the stone.

“Has he said what he is here for?” Rickard questioned as they made their way into the main hall, misliking how the Maester shook his head.

“No, my lord. However, he has brought something,” he replied, but Rickard did not ask. He would soon learn what exactly brought a man of the Night’s Watch half way across his kingdom in winter.

The guards opened a door for him, taking him into his solar, as it had been his father’s before him. There was a richly carved ironwood desk, a dyed tapestry hanging from the wall while natural light streamed into the office from a window that was half covered by a wood panel that was currently propped open. Rickard took a seat at his desk before gesturing for the messenger to be brought to him. He didn’t have to wait long.

He was dressed in black, from his boots to his fur cloak, a scabbard at his hip and one for a dagger in his boot. He was young, Rickard noticed quickly.

Dark hair, dark eyes, comely in looks. Rickard would put him at the same age as his second son, Eddard, which put him around fifteen. He was short for his age yet he was still lanky, but not in the sense that he had gone hungry. He was of the stage between boy and man. It made it that much more interesting why he, of all people, would be entrusted with a message of such urgency. “Watchman. You’ve come a long way,” he greeted the youth, “Your name?”

“Paul, Lord Stark,” Paul answered, meeting his gaze easily. A rare thing. He was no smallfolk, Rickard reasoned at that moment. The smallfolk, even the greatest of them, were reserved in the presence of a lord, much less a lord paramount. Yet, he didn’t recognize the boy, nor did he know of any member of his noble houses sending one of their kin to the Wall that he could be. Meaning that he was likely from the South, though he seemed unbothered by winter.

“Speak then. What brings you here?” Rickard ordered. It didn’t truly matter, but it did stand out to him. What he had to say, however, was far more important.

“I bring news of a wildling, my lord. One that goes by the name Muad'Dib,” Paul began, making Rickard lean forward. The Night’s Watch manned the Wall, an eight hundred foot tall wall that stretched the length of his kingdom to their uppermost border with the Lands of Always Winter. Their duty was to safeguard that border, and failing that, keeping him briefed on dangerous threats that lurked beyond it. Such as particularly dangerous wildlings.

“A King-Beyond-The-Wall?” Rickard growled, his jaw clenched. Poor timing. He could ill afford to deal with a would be king at the moment. Plans that had been long since put into place were going to begin moving this spring and summer, and a deviation from those plans was unwelcomed. Especially when in the eight thousand years since the wall was put up, there had only been seven, and the last one, Raymun Redbeard, was defeated by his grandfather.

Paul, thankfully, shook his head. “As of yet, no. His tribe numbers around three hundred, and he hasn’t made any moves to unite the tribes. Or expressed intentions to march south.” He spoke like a noble, Rickard idly noted, his lips thinning. The relief that he wasn’t dealing with another would be King-on-the-Wall was muted by his confusion. There were tens of thousands of wildlings beyond the Wall, and they killed and raided each other as much as they raided and killed in his kingdom. Or more, seeing as they didn’t have to surmount the Wall to raid and rape their neighbors. “Normally, the Lord Commander wouldn’t bother to inform you of his existence, except for… this.”

As the boy spoke, he took out a bronze cylinder. Paul passed it to a guard, who then in turn gave it to him. Rickard turned it over in his hands, noting the runes in the old tongue inscribed around it. It took him a moment to realize what it was. “A Myrish far eye?” He uttered, unfurling it to reveal three smaller tubes that were connected.

Expensive. As were all things from Essos. Merchants from Essos rarely ventured to the North, even up to Whiteharbor, and any goods imported from the south had an obscene mark up. His kingdom lacked a navy, so he had little use for such a thing, but… “Slavers from the east are known to venture beyond the Wall,” he ventured with distaste.

He would shed no tears for wildling, and even if they were barely men at all, no one deserved to be enslaved.

“It is of the same styling, however… bring it to your eye and turn the outer-most cylinder,” Paul instructed, making Rickard pause as he gaze leveled on the young man who seemed to realize his misstep. “My apologies, my lord, but it’s something you need to see for yourself.” He was used to giving orders, Rickard noticed, and his own curiosity grew. Bringing the far eye to his eye, he turned to the window, seeing the broken tower far closer than it was-

Rickard flinched back as the broken tower seemed to grow closer. That, he knew, was not normal. Instantly, he looked to Paul for an explanation, who seemed ready to give it. “It was produced by the wildlings. Bronze, glass, and it’s finer than any found in Myr. That is not all, my lord -- there is one other thing,” he said, pushing back his cloak and furs to reveal… something.

It was colored a grayish white and it vaguely appeared to be like armor. A plate that covered the chest, but it was strange and segmented. More than that, it was made out of an odd material. “It keeps the wearer warm, my lord. It won’t keep out a winter’s chill alone, but with it… I was half buried in snow every night, and I barely noticed in the morning.”

“That’s impossible,” Maester Wallys gasped, and Rickard was grateful that he said it so he wouldn’t have to. Rickard stood up, rounding the table to approach Paul. As he did, Paul responded.

“It’s made out of a strange material. Something that was produced, rather than mined or harvested. If it didn’t work, my lord, then I would be dead halfway between the Wall and Winterfell, if that far,” Paul said and Rickard grunted as he stopped before him. The suit wasn’t made out of metal at all. Taking off a glove, he poked it to find that it felt firm but strangely soft. “It seems to work by absorbing water. The suit absorbs it, then it warms it, which consumes water but when you’re buried in snow…” He trailed off and Rickard’s mind raced

That could change everything. To wear a simple suit, something that the wildlings could produce, and to not die of the cold? Winter, in the North, was always harsh. They just left a two year long one, and Rickard knew that there would be many villages that mourned lost loved ones. Grandfathers, fathers, uncles, brothers, and cousins that went out into the cold on a hunt, only to never return. All to spare their family an additional mouth to feed.

But, with this suit, his people could truly hunt. They could fish. Perhaps they could even venture south to buy more grain instead of waiting for the snow to thaw.

His finger brushed over it, noting that was almost like armor. The substance, whatever it was, seemed like it could turn away a blade. Yet, he saw imperfection. It was not masterfully crafted, like one would expect from a set of armor.

“Muad'Dib,” Rickard echoed the name, pulling back his hand. “Is that old tongue?” He asked, looking at Paul, whose expression betrayed little.

Maester Wallys shook his head slowly, “I can confer with my records, but the styling of the name doesn’t quite match. I would sooner believe that it was an Essosian name.” Of that, Rickard agreed.

“He could be an escaped slave as I don’t see wildlings answering to a slaver,” Rickard muttered, taking a step back. Wildlings, to his knowledge, were seen as exotic slaves. The blacksails of the Night’s Watch, though few there were, did report the occasional ship that ventured beyond the Wall for slaves, furs, and ivory. They could trade for a pittance and avoid tariffs that would be found in Whiteharbor. It was still rare, simply because of the considerable distance in rough seas.

Then Rickard noticed something. Perhaps the man's furs covered it, but… “That suit. Did anyone die for it?”

Paul didn't seem surprised by the question, “No, my lord. The far eye and the suit were given as gifts to you.”

The news did not put him at ease. A gift from a wildling? That put an end to his theory that it was an escaped slave trying to get back into civilization. “To what end.” It wasn't a question.

“Trade,” Paul answered evenly. That was what he feared. He would have preferred something far simpler like making war upon one of his rival clans. He could send the Umbers, Greatjon Umber in particular would relish the chance to return the favor and raid the wildlings. Trade, however, was far more dangerous because of the same people. His northernmost vassals would hate him for entertaining the thought of dealing with wildlings, no matter what could be gained.

After giving Rickard a moment to absorb that, Paul continued. “There are a number of things that he desires -- gold, copper, steel, wine, and dragonglass were the notable ones mentioned. Muad'Dib's tribe is located within the Frostfangs. Given the nature of the gifts, it is likely that the tribe is settled there.” The information was useful. Puzzling, but useful.

“Raw ores?” Rickard questioned, with a deepening frown. He understood what was being offered. The wildlings, this Muad'Dib, had started to craft goods beyond harvesting furs or whittling bones. Their glasswork was beyond even what Myr had accomplished, and they had hundreds of years to perfect their craft. It would make sense that they would want materials that they couldn’t easily gain access to beyond the Wall. Even if there was gold, silver, copper, and iron in the Frostfangs, they lacked the knowledge to properly mine it.

Dragonglass, however, did not easily fit on that list. Raw materials made sense. Produced goods, such as wine, soaps, or foodstuffs also made sense. Dragonglass, by any measure, was a useless material. Sharp, but brittle. Ill-suited for weapons and impractical for things such as buttons when there were more readily available options. It could be used to fashion jewelry, Rickard knew, as the mountain clans and the people of Skagos were wont to do.

“I believe so,” Paul answered easily. “Amounts were not discussed. They do have some metal-smithing ability, so it might not be strictly necessary.” Hm.

“Dragonglass?” Rickard questioned, his attention turning to the young man once more, seeing him offer a small shrug.

“The wildlings value it, my lord. I cannot tell you more than that,” he offered. In any case, it would be worth exploring. Skagos had dragonglass, as did the mountain tribes, though to a lesser extent. Skagos was a wild and untamed place, a vassal in name but in practice, the Stark’s grip over the northern islands had always been tenuous. It could be an opportunity to bind them tighter to the North as a whole. They would trade the dragonglass cheaply, as it had little value.

The issue there was that Rickard knew that they would be far less inclined to sell it once they learned it would go to wildlings.

Rickard mulled it over for a moment, “This Muad'Dib. Tell me what you know of him -- who his friends are. His enemies. I find it difficult to believe that wildlings suddenly produce fine goods without so much as a whisper beforehand.” He ordered, debating on if it would be worth it. He wanted these things. But the timing was poor. Very poor.

“I’m sure there were whispers, but none made it to the Night’s Watch. The clan is an isolated one that calls themselves the Fremen. They’re said to be deadly warriors, but only in the sudden disappearances of their enemies amongst the other clans. The Night’s Watch hasn’t had any outstanding dealings or encounters with them, save for Qhorin Halfhand, who found himself wintering with them these past two years. He would likely be able to tell you more, my lord.”

Wildlings that would harbor a man of the Night’s Watch? The wildlings hated them as much as the Night’s Watch and the northern lords hated the wildlings. No. No, it was increasingly clear that he wasn’t dealing with normal wildlings. Paul continued, “There is little that I can say of Muad'Dib. Only that, by appearances, he can be reasoned with.”

It would be best if he did away with the assumption that he was dealing with a wildling at all. Rickard made his way back to his seat, sitting heavily in it as his gaze once again turned to the far eye. “You have had a long journey through harsh winds. I will not send you back into them without that suit's protection. Until the first thaw, you shall be a guest.” Meaning at least a month.

Time that he could prob the young man for further details or answers to any additional questions he might have. Paul bowed his head, taking the dismissal for what it was before turning around to the door. It was when he was halfway through it, Rickard spoke up, “What house are you from?” He decided to ask, knowing that the boy was not low-born.

Paul glanced over his shoulder, “House Atreides.” He answered easily and Rickard fought off a frown.

“I don’t know it,” Rickard admitted, not quite apologetically. Paul, however, decided to not take offense and offered a wane smile.

“I would be surprised if you did,” he admitted, bowing his head once more before walking away. Rickard frowned at the boy until he vanished as Maester Wallys closed the door behind him. Rickard tapped a finger on his desk for a moment before inclining his head to the maester.

“It’s a compelling tale, if true,” Maester Wallys said, his lips thinning. “Not that I believe his words to be false, but as of now, there is simply so much that we don’t know. I have never heard of wildlings creating anything, except for trouble.”

Rickard let out a grunt, faintly amused, but it quickly faded. “Fetch my son. Let this be a learning opportunity for him,” he decided and the maester bowed, leaving his solar and giving Rickard a moment alone. He had more or less decided on a course of action, but Brandon was his heir. Despite how much he might wish otherwise, Brandon would need to develop the ability to think his problems through rather than cut through them with a blade.

The wolfsblood was strong in his son. Stronger than it was in himself, or even his grandfather. Brandon needed to learn how to temper his wild nature, and the best way to hone that skill was with problems that had no clear answer.

While he waited, he ran a finger over the runes on the far eye, his thoughts drifting to the one that delivered it. He had never heard of House Atreides, marking it as a southern house. Of them, it wouldn’t be a major house as he knew those as well. A masterly house? A knight house? The boy spoke too confidently, holding himself with self assurance… and if he was tasked with making the trek through such harsh snows, then he must have been a volunteer. The Lord Commander wouldn’t trust a criminal sent to the Wall to escape the noose with such gifts.

Another issue, Rickard thought as he rubbed his forehead. The Night’s Watch was in a state of decline, and it had been for some time. Their numbers hadn’t replenished since Raymun Redbeard overcame them, and they weren’t likely to. He had plans for that, but they were dependent on other plans coming to fruition. Before he could think too deeply into it, the door opened, revealing Brandon.

If Lyanna looked like her mother, then Brandon looked like himself -- it was almost like looking in his reflection the better part of two decades ago. Brandon was tall, handsome, long dark hair pulled back, a cut-short beard, and a roguish smile pulling at his lips. “Father,” Brandon greeted him, and from the smell, he had either practiced with his blade or with a maid.

“We have an opportunity,” Rickard informed, placing the far eye on the other side of the desk. Brandon was immediately taken with it, bringing it up to his eye and gazing out of his solar. “Twist the first link,” he instructed, and he heard a sharp intake of breath when his son did as bayed.

“It’s a wonder, father. What made you commission a far eye from Myr?” Brandon asked, lowering it.

Rickard held up a hand and pointed at him, “There lies the opportunity. I didn’t. That came from the north. From wildlings, made by wildlings, and given freely in hopes of fostering relations.” Rickard watched his son closely, and it was something of a relief that he was able to guard his expression even if his surprise was evident.

Brandon rolled the far eye in his hands before taking a seat across from him. “They have glass,” he noted and Rickard had to fight the smile off of his face. “That is a secret worth knowing. If we could bring them down, or learn it ourselves, then we wouldn’t need to pay those fucking slavers a copper for another glasshouse.”

Despite all his efforts to prove everyone otherwise, his son did have something between his ears. “The wildling wishes to open trade with House Stark. What he desires is raw materials -- metals and gemstones. What would you do?” He asked, and Brandon knew he was being tested. It wasn’t a test that could be failed, in so many words, but if he failed to impress then Brandon knew he would be punished for it later. If one could call learning how to rule the North a punishment.

Brandon hesitated to answer for a moment before he offered a shrug. “I’d trade with him,” he decided. “Preferably around the Wall. I doubt the Night’s Watch would be perfectly understanding.”

“Neither would the Umbers. The Karstarks. Nor the Glovers,” Rickard reminded lightly, making Brandon scowl as he rolled the far eye in his hands once more.

“They’d complain less if they saw what they had to gain. Like a glasshouse. After we build another for ourselves, of course,” he added. Good. A liege lord must stand above his vassals. It was a matter of perception -- if every house in the North had a glasshouse, then House Stark needed two. Or more. “But I suppose that would take time, and until then, they’d bitch and moan like a whore in Wintertown.”

Rickard leveled a Look at his son, who seemed mildly repentant, and that was about as much as he learned to expect. “The trade has to happen. At least for a time…” he pursed his lips, his brow furrowing in thought. Then Rickard saw a calculating glint in his dark gray eyes, “I’d lie.”

“How?” Rickard pressed, wanting to hear it in full.

“Depends on what would be easier, but to start I’d say we’re getting the glass from somewhere else. Maybe claim that we’re getting it from Skagos, down south, or we’re getting it from Myr. That'll throw off suspicion of how we get it. As for actually getting the goods, I’d enlist either the Mormmonts or the Karstarks to help smuggle the glass from the wildlings. It’d come with a promise for being second in line for something like a glasshouse, though,” Brandon ventured, and while it wasn’t quite in line with Rickard’s own thoughts, it wasn’t a poor plan.

“Such a deception will not last. A secret can only remain a secret between two men, and only if one of them is dead,” Rickard prompted, and Brandon nodded.

“Aye, but by that time we’d have a feel for the wildling. If he’s not some cannibal savage, I’d say try to bring him south of the Wall on the condition he swears fealty. Failing that, we take the secret for ourselves. We attack and take the craftsmen, give them a choice between life and death. So long as one of them talks, we give ‘em a few apprentices and the North can produce glass.” It was a colder course of action to take, but the Long Night would come again before Rickard shed any tears for wildlings.

Rickard nodded in agreement, “This task will be overseen by you, my son. It is your responsibility to bring glass, and whatever else these wildlings produce, to our house and the North. Do you understand?” If he managed it, it would be a huge boon for his reputation. Brandon was already liked by the Lords of the North, but he would be loved if he brought glass to the North. His reign would be secure.

Brandon hesitated, but he nodded all the same. That was good. He understood how important this could be for their house. The deception would last for a year, perhaps two. Roose Bolton, the latest lord of the Dreadfort, was a cunning creature with ice in his veins. He would investigate the claims himself. To that end, it would be best to entrust the secret to those that were beyond reproach, or those difficult to reach.

“It will be done, father,” Brandon said, though he made no move to stand. “Will this change anything? For your… plans,” he said with a less than quiet distaste.

Rickard’s gaze hardened, “No. You will marry the Tully girl,” he commanded and a snarl briefly flickered across Brandon’s face.

“I have no wish to marry a trout. Let that be Ned’s burden -- he’s spent enough time down south. He should be home, already,” Bradon snapped, anger leaking into his voice. He had been angry since he learned of his betrothal, and it did pull at his heart. Rickard had been fond of his Lyarra even before they were wed, and it was… regrettable that his son already had a girl that he was sweet on.

Barbrey Dustin would normally be a fine match. House Dustin had not been married into for a number of generations, and they were due one such marriage. If it were not for Rickard’s ambitions for the south, he would be content to let them wed. But those ambitions were there, and they would be realized in the coming years.

“Hoster Tully wants his blood on the seat of winter. A second son would not do,” Rickard growled, his own temper flaring. It was an argument that had resurfaced a dozen times too many. “Ned will do his duty in the south, securing his friendship with the Lord of the Stormlands and, in time, he will wed inside of the North.” In truth, Rickard would have preferred Ned to be home. He was fifteen, old enough to be called a man.

Robert Baratheon had influenced that plan. He was heir of the Stormlands, yet he remained in the Vale under the watchful eye of Jon Arryn, despite being of age to end his fosterage. It seemed the boy had little taste for rulership, under the impression that his father would live forever. A foolish notion, but a useful one. Rather than let the friendship risk cooling with distance and time, Rickard decided that it would be best to have Ned remain in the Vale until the Baratheon boy left for good.

Jon Arryn was a southerner, but he was a fine enough man who would help shape Ned into being a loyal right hand to Brandon. If all of his ambitions were realized, then perhaps he would have enough coin to send Ned to Moat Cailin to refurbish the ruin -- a long harbored dream by every Stark, only to be met with bitter disappointment because such a cost would be ruinous. The Greystarks were an example of the dangers of cadet branches, but the Karstarks were amongst his most loyal bannermen.

“Leave the South to the southerners! We’ve never needed them, and we never have! What do we gain by getting involved in their perfume courts?!” Brandon lost his grip on his temper but with a chilled look, the boy cowered away, biting his tongue.

“Before Jaehaerys Targaryen, aye, you would have been right. We could have closed Moat Cailin, rebuffed any messenger, and simply ignored the south to our delight,” he admitted easily. “But that was more than a hundred years ago, boy. For better or worse, the North is part of the Seven Kingdoms and in the centuries since Torrhen bent the knee, we have yet to gain much from it beyond grain sent by the Reach for prices so damned high that we might as well starve.” Brandon scowled but did not interrupt him.

It was galling. Torrhen Stark was unjustly condemned for yielding the North without battle, but Rickard saw the wisdom of the decision. Harrenhal was a fine example of what dragons could do and Brandon Snow may have killed a dragon. Perhaps even two. But if he failed to do anything but kill all three, that third dragon would have reduced the North to a wasteland in its rage. There was little to be done in the face of a dragon, such was their overwhelming power.

Yet the Targaryen kings acted as if they still possessed their mighty beasts that unified Westeros with fire and blood. Fools, imbeciles, and now a mad man. Rickard was all too aware how his letters to the throne about the high prices his kingdom paid for grain from the Reach was met with silence. Yet, when it increased the tariffs of timber, furs, and whale oil in return, the king suddenly remembered he had a seventh kingdom in the North, sending him nothing but threats and scorn.

The South had forgotten its promises. The Targaryens proved to have short memories -- the pact of ice and fire, promises of aid in winter, the theft of the New Gift… yet the North remembered and it harbored its grudges.

“It is long past time that the North benefits from our union with the South. Our voices will be heard,” Rickard continued, making Brandon wilt under his gaze. “Four of the seven kingdoms, with fosterings and marriages will state clearly to the Targaryans that their rule continues at our sufferance. So, you shall wed Catelyn Tully. You will bed her. You will get her with child and continue our line. You will do your duty, my son. Your wants and desires are nothing before the needs of the kingdom. Do you understand?”

Brandon held his gaze for a long moment, and Rickard could see the willfulness well up in him. Yet, all the same, he offered a small curt nod. Rickard knew that he would hear the argument one again, but so long as he did his duty then Rickard could put up with the griping. Without another word, Brandon got up and went to the door, not quite storming off, but not far off from it either.

As soon as the door closed with a thud, Rickard let out a breath and dragged a hand down his face, idly realizing that Brandon took the far eye with him. And, just when Rickard hoped that he had enough headaches for the day, there was another frantic knock at the door, not ten minutes later. “My lord!”

“Enter,” Rickard ordered, the door opening to reveal a pale Maester Wallys. “What is it? Has something happend?” He asked, starting to get up, a flash of worry gripping his heart.

“The member of the Night’s Watch- he’s vanished!” Maester Wallys informed and Rickard flinched back ever so slightly. Paul Atreides did not strike him as a deserter, but it was hardly as if he had never been wrong before. “He was told to take off the suit, for inspection, but when the doors closed… it is as if he vanished into thin air! The suit is the only thing he left behind!”

“Sound the guards and find him,” Rickard barked, gritting his teeth. He would have the head of a deserter, even if he didn’t commit a theft.

Maester Wallys nodded, rushing off and Rickard joined him, gathering up the guard to search Winterfell. When they failed to find him in the castle, they upended Wintertown, only to fail to find him there as well. Rickard even went as far as to search the surrounding countryside for any traces of him, yet it was as the maester said -- it was as if he vanished into thin air.

It was only three weeks later, after Rickard sent a raven to the Wall to inform the Lord Commander of the deserter, that he gained an inkling of what happened.

The Lord Commander had never sent a man to Winterfell in the first place.

…

Watched the second Dune movie and I loved it. I’ve been a big fan of the books for years now, and it’s nice to see a relatively faithful adaptation of them. Some things are changed, but all the changes make sense for a change in the medium. It also got me thinking since I’ve been on bit of an Asoiaf kick lately and there is a lot of overlap between the settings even if they are different genres. So, it seemed like a fun crossover to play with.

Paul would fit pretty well in Asoiaf -- his precinct abilities run parallel to greenseers, he has experience with harsh climates, and working with brutal people that live there. He also has experience turning them into an extremely effective fighting force. I have some ideas on what direction I want to go with the story, but in general, Paul has all that he needs to start making waves.

There is going to be a degree of tech uplifting with the Free Folk. Paul is from an advanced civilization, but there are a lot of things that he can’t build -- like superconductors. Or things that he doesn’t know how to create, like gravity tech. Stillsuits and binoculars are easy enough because the Fremen, while having an industry, are more of a ‘work with what you got’ kind of culture. But, I don’t plan on going wild with it. No gunpowder, for example.

The story takes place about four years before Robert’s Rebellion, giving me a little wiggle room for the ball to get rolling before Paul does what he does best -- fucking shit up while desperately trying to avert the worst-case scenario while everyone else runs straight toward it at full tilt.

So, if you’d like to see more, let me know.